


J'ai fait une promesse.

by yuletide_archivist



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-12-20
Updated: 2007-12-20
Packaged: 2018-01-25 05:51:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1634945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yuletide_archivist/pseuds/yuletide_archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After years of self exile, the Phantom returns to the Opera House.</p>
            </blockquote>





	J'ai fait une promesse.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Farasha Silversand

 

 

Once upon a time, he lived as a king might.

Underground in a maze of grottoes and waterways he alone knew the secrets of, he alone could navigate with ease. He knew every cranny, every crevice. He could disappear into the shadows like a ghost into the fog and rule over the darkness with his own silent tyranny. A lord to rats and vermin, who scurried away at his approach.

In much the same way he had control over the Opera House above. He knew how many slats boarded the stage, exactly. How many lights filled the chandelier. How many secret entrances had been created, and also forgotten, in strange places. And he could move throughout it imperviously. The owners bowed to his will, feared his wrath. And the stage hands quietly worshiped him while the actors scurried like rats at the mere mention of his curse. And Christine... his beautiful queen, her angelic voice filled his dreams and warmed the dark portion of his heart.

How times had changed. From King to nothing, another denizen of the streets eking out survival. Gone were his twisting tunnels, gone were his scurrying rats.

Gone was his magnificent queen, and with that, the loss of his domain seemed so slight a thing as to go unnoticed for years.

Not until the newspaper article, that dropped in front of him one morning from out the window of an block of flats, left tied in a bundle with other papers to be taken out with the trash. He glanced at it briefly, as the parcel itself had nearly crashed down upon his head as he sat near the gutter, considering the day ahead.

The story on the front cover, however, held his gaze. He reached out, struggling momentarily with the twine holding the garbage together, and then ripped the page out in his frustration, holding the pieces together to read.

_and the Opera House, famous still even after five years have passed since the tragic deaths perpetrated by the legendary Phantom of the Opera, will soon begin renovations. Monsieur Fermin insists the purpose of this is not to seek the famous treasure of the Phantom, rumored to be hidden somewhere within the recesses of the waterways below the opera house. It is, he states, simply to..._

He crumpled the newspaper, holding the ball in his hands as if it were the thick neck of Monsieur Fermin, or perhaps Andre. Treasure, indeed! The fools had no idea what amount was nestled away, forgotten even by the Phantom himself.

For years, he lived in a daze. The fog of his memory descending further with each passing day, each hour he drowned himself in his sorrows. But this! This outrage, this insult woke in him a fire he had not felt since he raged against the upheavals in his Opera House.

They wanted a treasure did they? He would be sure to give them one.

He wasn't sure what to expect on his arrival later that night. Even after so many years to explore, so many years to find his secrets, he realized they had not barred any of his ways back into the Opera House. Not even a guardsman posted at common entrances. Truly they believed him dead by now. A rumor whose origin he often pondered. Could Raoul and Christine have spread it as some sort of sign of compassion? Mercy?

Once this idea would have incensed him. Now he felt nothing but a draining exhaustion. Even as the old and familiar surrounded him, welcomed him back into its shadowy embrace. There would be no fanfare, no trumpets to call out the return of the Phantom. Only an empty stage and props so long unused as to be caked with dust.

What had become of his kingdom once he had abdicated? Had Fermin and Andre simply shut it down? Renovations indeed! So many things left to simply rot from disuse.

Signs of life he found nearer to the grottos. Here, he realized, they had discovered not one but three methods he used to move from underground into the opera house. He could see their work in progress still, gear still left for eventual use by the workers who were nestled in their beds. Partitions and walls ripped down to reveal the passageways behind.

The phantom smirked to himself. Not seeking the treasure were they?

Down into the depths he plunged. Back into his world of unending night, the music of the waterways lapping gently against the tunnel walls lulling him back, for a moment, into the past. To the boat, to her, wild eyed and innocent and beautiful.

He closed his eyes and willed himself in another direction, one less taken and obviously untouched by the renovators yet. A path not tread, he hoped, in all the years since his abandonment of this place. Forced to flee from the mobs above, or perhaps forced to flee from his breaking heart. To a single room hidden from sight, the walls carved out by some ancient hand for some unknown purpose. Where the stream of water disappeared beneath an iron portcullis to feed into a river far beyond. Here in this room was the treasure he knew they sought. Treasures they weren't quite expecting, either. Props stolen from the opera house, precious memories in each of them. Covered still in the same white sheets, protecting them from years of dust.

He reached out, caressing one absently, wondering if somehow he could remain again. Block away this part of the tunnels or sabotage the renovators to force them out. A fleeting though, he knew the futility of it. His war had ended the moment Christine fled from him in the arms of another man.

Something skittered in the distance. He turned, eyes narrowing. Did one of the workers return this late? Or perhaps he had forgotten time and already morning neared. A rat chittered and a soft gasp emitted from the lips of the intruder. Not far! Had he been followed? Footfalls drew nearer, he could hear the flickering of a torch flame. Instinctively, he reached for a wooden plank left leaning against the cavern wall, then fell back near the entrance and waited.

Light flickering from the torch preceded the intruder, casting dancing shadows against the walls. He waited patiently, unmoving until at last the dark figure emerged through the entryway. Reflexes hardly dampened in his years of exile, he reached out and grabbed the intruder's arm, swinging the plank in that same moment with murderous intent.

But his blow never quite struck. Not as the intruder's face turned toward him and a shriek emanated from her lips. In an instant, as if he'd been bitten by a viper, he recoiled, letting the plank clatter to the ground. "Christine!" He wore no mask. Nothing to shield her from the hideousness of his face, and instinctively threw his hands up to cover his horrible visage.

He expected her to run, alert the foreman above and perhaps Fermin himself, that she had run across the Phantom of the Opera, alive and still very much a violent man, within the depths of the underground.

He did not expect to feel the warmth of her hand against his forearm, or the strength of her fingers slowly lowering his hands from his face. Certainly not the strange little smile on her lips. Pitying... no, solicitous. Her lips parted as if to speak, then closed again.

"How did you come here?" he asked.

She swallowed, "I saw you from the street. I followed you."

"You should be with your husband. Your family."

Her eyes lowered, closing momentarily. "We never married."

His heart beat erratically. Surely she could feel it, hear it even! "Christine..."

She couldn't hold back the tears any longer. "My angel of music, my mentor, I have hurt you so badly. How can you even think of forgiving me?"

But he could forgive her, he knew, for he couldn't even blame her in the first place. "Oh Christine... there is nothing to forgive."

And then she smiled, even through the tears glistening on her cheeks, and he realized that at last, at long long last, the long night of his life would finally know the light of dawn.

 


End file.
